


the shadow of our overreach

by WeAreTomorrow



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Jealous, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-02-08
Packaged: 2017-11-28 13:51:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/675116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeAreTomorrow/pseuds/WeAreTomorrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Sherlock,” spoken hoarsely, almost broken, “I’m leaving.”</p><p>He means to say--that is the logical conclusion. The plan is to twist his mouth disdainfully and roll his eyes at the dramatics of the situation, turn away and good riddance.</p><p>Instead he asks, “Why?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	the shadow of our overreach

XXX

 

_the shadow of our overreach_

{sherlock/john}

 

XXX

 

It’s almost time for lunch when Sherlock comes back from Scotland Yard.

 

He’s hungry.

 

The  physical needs eclipsed by the case finally surface after two long days of adrenaline and Earl Grey tea. It’s not his favorite brand, but cheap and available at almost every twenty-four hour store.

 

Sherlock pauses outside the door [ _recognizable stride: John Watson, angry_ ] with his fingertips pressed against the wood grains [ _vibrations: objects being stacked roughly, most likely books_ ].

 

John has been avoiding him for the last six hours [ _ten minutes and thirty-one seconds, thirty-two…_ ]of the total forty-eight, since the grand reveal.

 

The climax of colliding situations, the unraveling of theory as he knocks over the domino chain of facts for others to understand. It’s his favorite part; the pitting of his intelligence against the world. The moment of teetering balance before the scales tip in his favor.

 

Still, it seems John has not been pleased with the results.

 

One needn’t be a genius to deduce that much, though, Sherlock was [ _dull thud indicates books being stacked in a container, likely cardboard_ ]. Undoubtedly so.

 

The childish part of him, the very small part that craves praise and recognition and cringes away from the memory of white hallways, wants to return later when John has calmed himself, has tucked the memory away too as he always does. Sherlock will admit he is utterly perplexed by the contradictions that the other man embodies; at the rarely rewarded patience.

 

Such an average [ _tightening of jaw, insecure_ ] man on the surface.

 

A straightforward individual, a military man.

 

Orderly and straight-laced, John is socially quite competent if unable, or unwilling, to commit to a deeper relationship, though he has an almost constant stream of women [ _dislikes public displays of affections, leans away from lingering contact_ ].

 

Yet, John craves the adrenaline, the in-between moments.

 

He has complete faith in Sherlock, that the scales will tip towards them.

 

This is perhaps the most irritating fact Sherlock must accept—John trusts him, despite all contrary evidence. Perhaps that is the paradox.

 

John is interesting because Sherlock cannot seem to permanently offend him, to get under his skin and shake him loose. Most people clutch their secrets tightly [ _cheating, again_ ] more closely when he’s around, making them easier for him to see [ _with the mailman, how quaint_ ].

 

But John: nothing.

 

Nothing but _wonder_ and _admiration_ and the _it wasn’t obvious to me_.

 

Which only succeeds in making Sherlock more determined to draw his secrets out from his veins, like drawing blood. Analyze under the microscope, diagnose, and complete a working theory. It shouldn’t take this long.

 

He has facts but no explanation for them.

 

John opens himself willingly, without being asked or manipulated. So he reads between the lines, splits the pages, tears open the spine. Still, he can shake no answers loose.

 

Answers to, _do you mean it_?

 

If he were the sort of man to admit a weakness [ _over-confidence, quick dismissal, isolation of potential allies_ ] Sherlock might say that he’s testing John. Ripping him apart to see if he leaves.

 

Sherlock stops stalling and opens the door.

 

[ _Boxes everywhere: haphazardly stacked in anger, some taped shut, most not_.]

 

“John?”

 

It comes out more uncertain [ _note: erase Mycroft’s audio recording device_ ] then he intends, shock—what an unpleasant falling sensation, this is why he avoids it—making the word weak in the middle, structurally unsound and much too revealing for someone who is listening for it.

 

The previously tense shoulders hunch further, body position screaming defensiveness.

 

John turns slowly, strip of duct tape [ _core size: three inches, less than one left, excellent cross tear-ability for one-handed applications_ ] dangling from his right hand, not meeting his eyes.

 

“Sherlock,” spoken hoarsely, almost broken, “I’m leaving.”

 

He means to say _that is the logical conclusion_. The plan is to twist his mouth disdainfully and roll his eyes at the dramatics of the situation, turn away and good riddance.

 

Instead he says, “Why?”

 

John still won’t meet his eyes and Sherlock finds it distracting [ _torso turned away, crossed arms; still angry_ ] because it feels like he’s missing something essential to the picture and more than anything, he hates not understanding. Body language easily read, the facts clearly stated, and still the answer makes no sense.

 

“You know why.”

 

Sherlock dismisses the accusation with a wave of his hand, annoyance in the flick of his wrist. He hates justifying himself.

 

“Because I left you? John, really, you were perfectly safe the entire-“

 

“You _left_ me,” John says, voice raw. He does this sometimes; restate the facts already acknowledged as if it’s not the answer that needs revising, but the question.

 

Sherlock pauses, derailed. Simply looks.

 

[ _Rumpled clothes, deep bruised eyes. Hasn’t slept since the case, hasn’t changed_.]

 

John turns towards his box again, smoothing over the tape over. His whole body is hunched inward, collapsing in on himself [ _combined effects of sleep depravation and shock_ ] all the lines of his body curving inward protectively.

 

“I didn’t leave you,” Sherlock says but it tastes sour in his mouth.

 

Across the room, John lets out a strangled laugh, his fingers tightening around the edge of a table [ _knuckles whiten; using pain to focus, find control_ ]. He doesn’t like the sound, or the way he feels like a schoolchild giving the wrong answer. When John speaks again, it’s that same tone of voice. Choked, fighting for control.

 

“I thought you were dead,” he says, as if that explains everything [ _accelerated heart rate, bowed head_ ] and maybe it does. “ _Sherlock_ , I thought-“

 

He breaks off, taking a deep breathe.

 

Sherlock takes a step forward, then one back. He hates, _hates_ uncertainty.

 

John squares his shoulders, instinctively shifting his center of weight for maximum stability [ _one point six inches under the sternum_ ] and widens his stance. The posture of a soldier preparing for the storm to hit, for the tide to rush him. He turns, quicker than Sherlock expects him to, a sneak attack.

 

Clever soldier boy.

 

John forces himself to meet his eyes out of pride [ _tightening of the brow, deepening of frown lines_ ] and his blue eyes reflect betrayal like mirrors. He’s always had long eyelashes for a man.

 

“I can’t do this anymore.”

 

Sherlock opens his mouth to [ _but…_ ] and can’t.

 

“I’m sorry,” John says, grabbing the box on the desk.

 

He hesitates before brushing by Sherlock, still full of words, as his gaze flicks to the window [ _checking for his ride, possibly_ ] and Sherlock hesitates too [ _a friend, not the new girlfriend, too early for that_ ] but has no words at all.

 

“I’ll… I’ll be by to get the rest.”

 

And with that, John leaves, figure disappearing down the flight of steps without looking back.

 

Distantly, he can hear the turning of the doorknob [ _unnecessary jostling, box position making the knob hard to grasp_ ] and the quiet squeak of hinges. And then, the door simply shuts. A hollow, empty thud.

 

Everything is utterly, overwhelmingly still.

 

[ _But… he can’t just…_ ]

 

And then, the sound of a motor starting.

 

He takes the steps two at a time, stomach clenching with the possibility that John is already gone, disappeared into a cab [ _ones that frequent the area: FR9247, BW3107…_ ] and driven off, gone. Sherlock bursts through the front door like a tidal wave and, yes, maybe John is right to brace himself.

 

He expects the shocked look on John’s face.

 

He does not expect the lack of surprise on Lestrade’s.

 

Sherlock Holmes rocks back slightly on his heels [ _soleus muscles tightening in the legs, maintaining balance_ ] taking the new development in, well, not exactly in stride.

 

“ _Him_?” Sherlock says, shoving the accusation in John’s face, “You’re moving in with _him_?”

 

John’s features shift from shocked to relieved to angry in a single intake of breath [ _face flushing, harsher breathing, straightening of the spine_ ] floodgates opening as he faces Sherlock, empty-handed. Lestrade shifts the box to his other side, glancing between them uneasily. His hand lingers on John’s shoulder, looking comfortable and friendly, like it’s there all the time.

 

It’s not; he would have noticed.

 

“Yes, _Sherlock_ ,” John says, struggling for calm, “ _Greg_ has graciously invited me to lodge with him for a while.”

 

Sherlock steps closer unconsciously, voice cold, the way the other man hates it most, “Oh, and what does his wife think of _that_? You want to intrude on the poor man now while he’s trying to save his marriage?”

 

And suddenly, John explodes.

 

John steps forward as if to push him away and for a brief, terrible moment Sherlock closes his eyes and waits for impact _[twist body at the waist to avoid concrete edge_ ]. Instead, rough hands are twisted in the front of Sherlock’s shirt and he’s drawn forward.

 

Face-to-face, John’s whole body coiled into an accusation. Violence under iron control, trigger-ready, and Sherlock forces himself to take a breath.

 

This is a side he rarely gets to see.

 

“They got divorced a _week_ ago, you _stupid sod_ , because she was _cheating on him_ , _remember_?”

 

Sherlock’s eyes flicker to Lestrade’s hands and, yes, the ring isn’t there. A moment of internal panic—how long hasn’t he noticed that—before it registers [ _red irritated skin of the ring finger, removed today for the first time in years_ ].

 

He points this out to John, who twists into him harder.

 

“That’s not the _bleeding point_ , Sherlock.”

 

He wants to ask _then what is_ but doesn’t; he has the facts, if he could just figure the question out, blue eyes relentless, breathless. The edges of it are just out of his reach.

 

The frustration; it chokes the air, twisting the anger and the tension together, them together. He’s finding it hard to think properly, feeling out of his depth. This is important, heavy with gravity and curling fingers.

 

Lestrade coughs awkwardly; they don’t look at him.

 

“I’ll, uh, be in the car, then. Take your time.”

 

John tries to nod but their faces are too close together; their foreheads brush together [ _skin heated: possibly fever, likely heightened emotions_ ] and stay that way, touching.

 

“It’s not the _point_ ,” John says roughly, anger bleached from his voice, leaving it cracking and raw, “They put me in the mental ward. You let them—“

 

His voice fades, draining away, grip weakening. Sherlock has the sickening realization that this time he’s gone to far, pushed too hard. John _wasn’t_ braced because he was expecting it from everybody else but, dear god, _not from him_.

 

Because it’s not really anger; it’s hurt.

 

“I can’t do this anymore,” John says and his fingers slip from the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt [ _the one that John said—it doesn’t matter_ ]. One of them sways forward, foreheads pressed together tighter, faces tilting toward each other dangerously.

 

And then, it’s over. John steps back, steps away.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

With that, he leaves. The car pulls away.

 

“I came back,” Sherlock says, desperately.

 

Nobody hears him.

 

[ _Too little, too late_.]

 

 


End file.
